


Advances

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Soldiers, Vignette, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-16
Updated: 2003-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers advance on the French. A series of loosely-connected vignettes taking place over the course of one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advances

**Author's Note:**

> Book-based, although my Richard Sharpe has always been blonde and green-eyed. Written for [](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/profile)[**contrelamontre**](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/) Senses Challenge #5: Taste. PWPs not allowed. Time limit: 45 minutes.

"[T]here was not a man in the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers who did not know who truly gave the Battalion its orders." ~ _Sharpe's Regiment_

***

_Mid-morning_

The cannonball whipped over the heads of the Prince of Wales' Own, the force spinning Major Sharpe around until he found himself facing the Sergeant at his side. As he parted his lips, a grin forming on his face and in his voice, a slow trickle of blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. Surprised, he put a hand to his face, let his tongue poke at the inside of his mouth.

He'd bitten down hard on his right cheek as the cannonball passed overhead, and now a thick stream of blood was making its ponderous way from the slice into the rest of his mouth. It rolled across his tongue, crept into the corners, between his teeth, a heavy, full-bodied taste that he was well-acquainted with. Tinny and meaty, it overpowered the dust in the air, the burning ash of tiny grass fires, the pasty, sticky film produced by a parched throat.

"All right, Pat?" He grinned and spat a stream of blood on the ground.

"Aye, sir."

"Then let's get those buggers."

The bigger man smiled and turned to the men. "...'Talion!"

The Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers advanced.

***

_Afternoon_

Sharpe bit the cartridge open, the bullet in his mouth, his tongue trapping the ball against his teeth. He poured all but a pinch of the powder down the rifle barrel, spit the ball into the small, greased leather patch, and tamped the whole mess down, forcing the ramrod past the barrel's grooves. He pulled the rod out, the last pinch of powder reserved to prime the pan, and then the gun was up, the flintlock falling, the kick bruising an already bruised shoulder. The sharp taste of saltpetre was on his tongue, a few granules clinging to the inside of his mouth, gritty against his teeth, laced with the faint tinge of lead.

The Battalion fired another ragged volley into the smoke, their bullets rattling against unseen targets. Sharpe inhaled, the harsh tang of ash and dust filling his nose, settling at the back of his throat. He spat on the ground, a wad of tainted phlegm and saliva pattering on the dry dirt.

A shout went up from the French troops, echoing and building as officers repeated the order, spreading it among the ranks. As the smoke cleared, Sharpe saw the French turn from the British, the soldiers hurriedly forming into loose columns, backing into the hills.

"We've got 'em running now, Sergeant."

"Aye, that we have, sir."

The French began their long retreat.

***

 _Twilight_

The men dripped with sweat, soaking and tired from their quick advance. Sharpe panted heavily, the onset of dusk doing little to cut the heat generated during the Battalion's progress. The Major's hair hung heavy and lank, clung uncomfortably to his face, sticking and unsticking as he moved. Sweat plastered his uniform to his body, beading and trickling down the hollow of his throat, his back, his armpits, the back of his knees, the sides of his face. It dripped down his cheeks, catching in the corners of his mouth, and his tongue slipped out from between his teeth to catch the warm, salty, and slightly sour liquid. The suggestion of salt was light, a taste rolling to the edges of his tongue, tinting his saliva rather than overpowering it. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Earthy, dark dirt, and a faint hint of blood overlay the fuzzy, dry taste of the linen. It mingled with the sweat, broke apart and dissipated as he swallowed.

"Sergeant!"

"Sir!"

"Deploy piquets, and tell the men to get some sleep. The bastards aren't going any further tonight."

"Yes, sir."

The men broke ranks and settled among their comrades, and as dusk gave way to night, they slept.

***

 _Night_

Sharpe moaned, the sound harsh in his own ears. He shuddered, gasping for air, his fingers digging into the dirt. His body thrashed, once, twice, and was still.

"Pat."

"Sir?" Harper's voice was full of amusement. The big Sergeant moved up the length of his Major's body, one hand still cradling Sharpe's balls. He leaned into a rough kiss, his breath warm, damp, inviting.

Harper's saliva mingled with Sharpe's own. It was edged with the sweat and semen licked off of Sharpe's cock. The taste was strange; salty, musky, dark, but curiously flavourless. He'd given up trying to catalogue its nuances, preferring instead to associate it with the taste of the night, with Patrick. A hint of metal, no doubt left over from the repetitive loading and firing earlier in the day lingered underneath, along with another flavour... Something familiar...

Light, a bit dry, sweet, clean...

Sharpe broke the kiss, pulled his face away from Harper. The Sergeant bobbed his head, attempting to regain the lost contact. He was stopped by a look. Sharpe narrowed his eyes, let his tongue snake out to lick at his own lips. "Patrick, you're keeping something from me."

Harper froze, surprise evident on his face."God save Ireland, I'm not."

"You damn well are." He paused, a wicked grin curling up the edges of his mouth, "What does an officer have to do to get a cup of tea in this bloody Army?"

Patrick laughed. "I'll see what I can do, sir."


End file.
